


Star Crossed

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier keeps his promises, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: “It’s not true.”  The man’s voice is rough as a knife over gravel and is short enough to make the bard falter at his tone.  It takes him a moment to realize he’s referring to the story he’d told as part of the festival.“You don’t believe in the lost lovers?” he asks, offended to the very core of his romantic heart.  He stands a little straighter to glare up at the larger man.  “I’ll have you know that my story comes from the works of Master Essi herself--she knew the lovers herself.  It's the foundation story of our whole town and this festival!  How can you say the story isn’t true?”A shadow crosses over the stranger’s face and eyes that flash gold flick away from the bard to stare at the trees and the lonely hill.  Despite himself, the bard feels his heart ache at the grief in his expression.“He didn’t come back.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 254
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #06





	Star Crossed

**Author's Note:**

> I swear that the tags are accurate. There is no Major Character Death.
> 
> With that in mind, prepare yourself for everything but.

Star Crossed

The bard stares out at the crowd with a practiced air that manages to convey the mystery and romance of the finale to his tale. Around him, the crowd waits, silent and eager to play their part in a narrative they all know. There is no sound but the lonely wind playing through the barren trees overhead. Even the faraway noises of the festival and the highway traffic are quieter somehow.

_ “The lovers stared at each other with love and a new, terrible knowledge growing within their chests. _

_ “You have to do it, my love,” the first whispered. “It has to be you.” _

_ “I don’t want to lose you,” his lover replied. _

_ “You won’t. I’ll always come back for you. Our love cannot be stopped by something as weak as death.” _

_ With shaking hands, the lovers join their palms one last time to guide the knife to the fallen man’s chest. His pale eyes looked up at the warrior above him. _

_ “I’ll come back to you. I swear it.” _

_ “I love you,” the warrior whispered a moment before he struck.”” _

By now, the crowd is nearly vibrating with emotion. Several faces are wet with tears, eyes fixed on the bard on the dias like sinners before a vengeful god. Each of them eager to hear the end of the story.

It’s the same every year. They know the tale that surrounds the two trees twined together on an otherwise empty hillside. It’s become a shrine of sorts for those who dare to hope for an impossible romance of their own, one that can withstand the tests of time and fate. Their candles and small offerings of yellow flowers twined with silk cords form a dotted quilt amidst the green grass. Since this is the hundred-year anniversary, it’s no surprise that the crowds are even larger and the offerings more prolific than usual.

Like any good bard, the man adds to the theatricality of the moment by looking up at the moon above them, seemingly overcome with the emotions of the tale. In his hands, the lute remains silent, mournful. When he speaks again, his voice is rough.

_ “Blood spilled bright and terrible over the barren earth. The warrior’s hands dropped the blade to lay forgotten beside the body, shaking in a way that was unnatural to his profession. He pulled his lover into his arms, rocking gently as he listened to the final heartbeats of the other half of his heart. _

_ “Don’t go,” he begged, “I can’t do this alone.” _

_ His lover smiled and reached up with the last of his strength to cup the warrior’s cheek. His mouth opened to whisper comfort, but the sound seemed to die in his throat.  _

_ The warrior watched eyes the color of the sky go blank as the body in his arms slowly went limp. He sobbed, wretched in his loneliness and cursing the witch that brought this misery upon them. _

_ “You said you’d come back,” he said again and again, “You promised you wouldn’t leave me!” _

_ But his lover remained still.” _

Smothered sobs fill the air around the bard as he watches the shining eyes staring up at him. In their midst, he finds a lone figure watching him with something terrible in his eyes and a small bundle of yellow wildflowers in one hand. The bard takes a breath and forces himself to continue without thinking about the stranger standing apart from the crowd.

_ “For days, the warrior remained with his lover in his arms as the moon above them slipped back into darkness.  _

_ It seemed the earth grieved with him. Leaves fell from the trees and flowers withered before daring to bloom in the wake of the warrior’s desolation. Above his head, the sun rose and fell in the same rhythm of the centuries without any sign of the warrior noticing. Even when the air turned cold to herald the coming winter, the warrior remained stalwart. _

_ Each day, the villagers came forward with food and water to keep him from joining the dead man in his arms. “Let us put him into the earth,” they begged. “He would not have wanted you to rot with him.” _

_ But the warrior did not move. _

_ Even the sight of his family’s tears weren’t enough to convince him to leave his lover’s side. “Please,” they begged, “Come home with us.” _

_ But the warrior did not seem to hear. _

_ His eyes remained fixed on the chest of his lover like he was waiting for the moment when it would rise once more. His fingers traced over features he knew better than his own with reverence. Checked the place where his pulse should still flutter against his fingers.  _

_ “Come back to me,” he pleaded in the silence of the forgotten clearing. “I can’t do this without you.” _

_ As though the words were a trigger, a ripple of power swept over the two men.  _

_ The warrior leaned protectively over his lover as the skies above him erupted with an unnatural storm. Lightning cracked and the earth shuddered as it struck trees in riots of spark and flame. The wind pulled and tugged at the warrior like it was trying to drag him away from the body of his lover. _

_ He tightened his hold, screaming back at the heavens. “I won’t leave him!” _

_ Rain and hail thudding against the earth, hitting the warrior like blows as he tried to protect the body in his arms. The storm howled and raged around him, wind slicing into his flesh like knives. The chill in the air left his fingers pale and frozen into the fists they’d formed in the clothing of the fallen man to keep them anchor together. It was as though all of nature was working to pull them apart. _

_ But the warrior did not move. _

_ As abruptly as it began, the unnatural storm ceased, leaving only the faint sounds of water falling through the leaves.  _

_ The warrior slowly looked around to take in the sight of the devastation left behind. He shivered, soaked and frozen in equal measure after having been forced to ride out the worst of it without any shelter. He released a slow breath of air, wishing there was some way to ensure his lover’s body would be safe from another unexpected attack. _

_ A single touch against his shoulder chased away those thoughts for good. _

_ He looked down in time to see the moment when dark lashes raised to reveal blue eyes looking back at him with the same love reflected in his own. _

_ The warrior felt his heart race in his chest. “You came back,” he said. _

_ “Always.” _

  
  
  


Later, when the crowds have left to return to their homes with their hearts full from the love story of the mythical lovers, the bard begins to pack up his own supplies. His lute goes into the battered leather case with reverence and he carefully gathers up the scattered coins and tips from around his podium.

A pair of booted feet stop a few feet away and he looks up in time to see the stranger he’d spotted in the crowd earlier. The man’s broad shoulders are barely contained by the black t-shirt he wears and sets off the pale sheen of his skin and hair. In any other setting, he might have asked the man for a drink, but there’s something about the bitter twist of his lips that makes him seem untouchable. He starts to open his mouth--to say what, he isn’t sure--but the stranger speaks first,

“It’s not true.” The man’s voice is rough as a knife over gravel and is short enough to make the bard falter at his tone. It takes him a moment to realize he’s referring to the story he’d told as part of the festival.

“You don’t believe in the lost lovers?” he asks, offended to the very core of his romantic heart. He stands a little straighter to glare up at the larger man. “I’ll have you know that my story comes from the works of Master Essi herself--she knew the lovers herself. It's the foundation story of our whole town and this festival! How can you say the story isn’t true?”

A shadow crosses over the stranger’s face and eyes that flash gold flick away from the bard to stare at the trees and the lonely hill. Despite himself, the bard feels his heart ache at the grief in his expression.

“He didn’t come back.”

******

Reality, it seems, is a far crueler narrator. 

******

_ [100 Years Ago] _

“I’m just saying little yellow wouldn’t kill you, Geralt. Or even a nice blue--you’d look great in blue! Anything but all this, this...black.”

“No.”

“Aw, come on, love,” Jaskier wheedles, turning to walk backwards so he can bat his eyelashes at the Witcher, “I know just the tailor to make you look simply gorgeous. You’ll love it.”

Geralt gave him a mock offended look. “Are you saying I’m not handsome now?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. It makes Geralt hide a small smile of his own, amused by the man’s expressive reactions. 

“You know what I mean, you great brute. You’ve been wearing those threadbare, boring clothes for decades. It’s time to update your wardrobe.”

“I’m a Witcher, not a nobleman,” he explains with a roll of his own eyes, “You know how well silks do when you’re on a hunt--I’d ruin them in a week.”

“Hmm...fair point.” Jaskier’s brow furrows, but before he can answer they both pause to listen to a muffled sound that becomes familiar when on the Path.

A scream.

They exchange looks and begin running in the direction of the noise. Jaskier takes the reins from Geralt so the Witcher is free to race ahead and ensures the bard can escape quickly if need be.

Geralt rounds the next bend in the road and nearly skids to a halt when he takes in the sight of the destroyed village with surprise. There had been no scent of smoke or bloodshed to warn him that there was anything but woods waiting for them. He scans the trees above them for signs of smoke and frowns when it seems to disappear before reaching the open sky.

A touch to his faintly vibrating medallion confirms that something magical is afoot. Another quick look around helps him catch the subtle demarcation that helps answer why he hadn’t sensed the village before. Someone had set up a powerful barrier blocking it from the rest of the world.

“Geralt?” Jaskier comes running up with Roach a few seconds later, “What was--”

Their heads snap back to the village when a woman’s voice shrieks above the faint sounds of chaos. Geralt tries to reach out for Jaskier’s arm, but the bard has always been more brave than cautious.

He races forward through the barrier, focused only on the woman in need and not the line he’d crossed. There’s a faint shift of displaced air that signifies that he’s passed through the magic, but it clearly wasn’t meant to keep anyone out. Only to keep others from noticing what was happening within.

Geralt curses his luck and follows his bard.

As soon as he steps over the line, he can hear the sounds that the barrier had halted and wrinkles his nose at the scent of burning fabric and wood. Jaskier is still running toward the thick of things and Geralt tears off after him, knowing Roach is smart enough to fend for herself until he can come fetch her.

A hulking figure of a man crouches over a cowering woman with his hands outstretched. She screams again--terror evident on her young face--before Jaskier reaches them.

The bard grabs the man by the arm and shoves him back in a move that hinted at the subtle strength that he hid beneath ridiculously colored clothing. “Get away from her!” he snaps.

When the man turns to face Jaskier, the bard falters at the sight of eyes gone completely white with no sign of pupils beneath. An inhuman growl rattles out of his chest as he prowls forward like he hasn’t noticed the armed Witcher a few steps away. His hands are curled into claws, fingers stained the same unnatural black of a frostbite victim.

It makes it easier for Geralt to step forward and behead him in a smooth sweep of his sword. 

The body drops in a heap and the woman releases another horrified sound when blood sprays the wall beside her. Her eyes dart between the body and the Witcher with obvious terror. Jaskier is quick to crouch down beside her, subtly blocking her view of the body with his own.

“There now, my dear. It’s alright now.”

When he reaches out to touch her arm in an attempt to comfort her, she jerks further away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Alright, alright,” he soothes with his hands up in a relaxing gesture. “We won’t hurt you. We just came to help.”

“You...you’re from outside. Outside the barrier?” Her tone is incredulous and Geralt wonders how long it’s been keeping them inside.

“What barrier?”

“The barrier you crossed over in your rush to play hero,” Geralt says before she could answer. He levels the woman with a look. “Why is your village bound like this? What’s happened here?”

“The mage’s guild in the closest town put the barrier there to keep the sickness from spreading into the cities,” she answers, eyes wary. “They left us here to die.”

“What kind of sickness?”

She nods her chin in the direction of the headless corpse. “When they get sick, they turn into this. A few days ago, he was just like me.”

Geralt stares at the body with a frown. In all his years on the Continent, he’d never heard of anything like this. Most illnesses ended at a bedside, not a battlefield.

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier says with confidence, “Geralt will sort this out.”

“I’m a Witcher, not a doctor,” Geralt grumbles. Experience tells him that that hardly matters once Jaskier sets his mind to something.

“Nonsense--no one else is better qualified to hunt down an unseen foe.” Jaskier smiles at the woman with enough charm that he sees a blush creep up her neck. He almost feels sorry for her--he knows what it’s like when Jaskier turns his full focus on you. “When did the illness begin?”

“A few weeks ago. The gravedigger was the first to get sick.”

“Is there anyone we could talk to about him?”

“Just his sister. She was gone when he became...like this. She’ll be able to tell you more.”

  
  


They set out for the cabin on the outskirts of town using the directions from the woman. Along the way, the effects of the sickness became clearer. Nearly every house was empty and he was careful not to let Jaskier investigate further when he recognized the sweet scent of rotting flesh. What once had been a bustling village a few hundred people was reduced a few dozen hiding behind boarded up windows and doors.

He expects to have to bash his way into the gravedigger’s home based on what he’d seen, but he’s surprised to find the woman they’re searching for standing outside weeding an overfull flowerbed.

She barely glances over at them. “What do you want?”

Jaskier steps forward with the same smile he uses to convince innkeepers to give him free food between songs, but Geralt held up a hand to stop him. He has a feeling this woman won’t be amused by the bard’s usual antics.

“What do you know about this illness?” he asks, matching her brisk tone.

Dark eyes flicks over to the two of them, assessing. “I take it the barrier is still in place?”

Geralt nods.

“Probably a good thing,” she says as she turns back to her flowers. “I’ve never heard of anything like this. Better not to let it spread through the Continent.”

“How did it start?”

“Hard to say. All we know is that poor Joff was the first to go mad with it.”

“The grave digger?” Jaskier asks, frowning. “What happened to him?”

“He started complaining that his head hurt after finishing up at the cemetery. These awful black lines started going up and down his arms. Then he just...snapped.”

Geralt and Jaskier share a look at the mention of the black lines, remembering the man they’d killed in town.

“What do you mean, ‘he snapped’?”

“Started attacking his wife and kids. It took four of us to put him down.” She looks back at him with a numb sort of grief in her expression. Like she’d already seen the worst the world could offer. “Joff was a gentle soul. He never wanted to hurt anyone. Couldn’t even stand to eat any meat because he thought the cows had sweet eyes.” Her lower lip trembles a little before her spine straightens. “He was a good man.”

The description she’d offered didn’t sound like any disease he’d ever heard of. Witchers were capable of getting most diseases that plagued the human population, but he’d seen plagues sweep through cities and countrysides before. He remembers talks of fevers and vomiting--not flying into a rage and trying to kill the people closest to you.

Which meant it might not be an illness.

“You said he was a grave digger?” he says after a moment of consideration. “Has he had any work lately?”

Her lips purse. “Just one. The Dark Mage.”

Jaskier looks eager, sensing a story worthy of song. “Dark Mage?”

The woman spits on the ground and makes a gesture to ward away evil. “He was a blight on this town for years, taking our money for his snake oil cures. When the cows stopped giving milk and poor Bess lost her baby, we knew who to blame.”

The Witcher watches her face twist into a mask of hate that is familiar after so many years. He knows how easy it is for people to let that hate turn into madness.

“They killed him.”

She nods. “He tried to act like it wasn’t him who brought such evil into our town, that he wasn’t responsible for it, but we knew the truth. He had to be put down.” Her eyes take on a fanatical hue. “They hanged him on the outskirts of town--after we cut out his tongue to make sure he couldn’t curse us with his last breath.”

Jaskier’s hand laces through his, squeezing tightly enough that he knows the bard is barely hanging onto his control. It’s a promise as much as it is a comfort. A silent reminder that Jaskier will always fight against the prejudices of his kind. It sits like a warm ember in his chest.

A thought occurs to him then. “You said the grave digger was the first to get sick. Who caught it next?”

“The men who helped put him down when he went mindless. Then their families. It took us a while to realize that it spread through touch.”

He thinks back to the fear in the first girl’s eyes when Jaskier had reached for her. The way she’d seemed just as terrified of being caught by them as she had been the mindless creature hunting her.

_ Don’t touch me! _

It solidifies his growing suspicion that this is more than some fever or new strand of infection. He wonders if the rumors were true about the dead mage or if destiny had decided to give him his revenge from beyond the grave. Either way, there was little hope that this was something that would go away on its own. It wouldn’t stop until everyone within the barrier was dead. Including Jaskier.

“Where was his home?” Geralt asks briskly, eager to get away from this woman and her bigoted views. If they can search the home, they might get lucky and find some clue as to what the mage might have down to the rest of the town.

The woman gestures with a thumb towards the path leading further away from town. “Stay on the path and you won’t miss it. Watch out for his bitch of wife though.”

“His wife?”

“Yeah,” she says shortly, “Sybil. The mayor didn’t feel right stringing her up with her husband, being a woman and all. Even after she tried to gut one of the men guarding him at the execution. If you ask me, the mayor has always had a soft spot for a pretty face...not that it matters now.”

Geralt starts toward the direction she’d indicated, but Jaskier hangs back to watch her with a critical eye.

“You should…” he hesitates, torn between his natural sympathies and his own disdain for the prejudice she’d shown, “You should stay inside in case any infected people spot you.”

She doesn’t look up. “No sense hiding now,” she says, “I’m already infected.”

“How do you know?”

“The bastard next door grabbed me when I went to check on them,” she replies, hands tugging at stubborn weeds with restrained fury, “Now I’m just waiting until I can’t think anymore.”

There’s not much they can say to that.

Jaskier catches up to Geralt and they start down the quiet trail, not speaking. He keeps his eyes on the trees around them in case any of the villagers decide to attack. Mentally, he tries to think of any creatures that might be responsible for this kind of madness. There were all manner of beasts that preferred to hunt near cemeteries, but he’d never known them to be capable of spreading a sickness like this. Which leaves the victim of the townspeople’s rage as the primary suspect.

“Do you think it’s really him?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s a sickness.”

“It sounds like he had more than enough reason to curse the people here.” The bard looks unnaturally grim. “Do you think his wife is the one behind this?”

He grunts. “Won’t know until we talk with her.”

“I can’t say I blame her if she did curse this town for killing the man she loved.”

Jaskier doesn’t have to say he’d do the same if it was Geralt being threatened or harmed. They’ve proven their dedication to one another time and time again. Theirs is a bond forged in fire and the fear of facing this world without the other by their side. 

He slows to a stop and reaches out to pluck a leaf from Jaskier’s hair, careful not to check for any new grey hairs that promises a future loss. There’s a growing need itching inside his bones to protect Jaskier from anything that could harm him, to pull him close enough that his own body can be the shield that the world breaks. Even if he knows it’s futile. Even if he knows that there will not always be a beast to kill in order to keep him safe.

The bard smiles softly at him as Geralt cups his cheek and swipes his thumb over soft skin in a caress. “Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same,” he recites, thinking back to a forgotten book tucked between ancient bestiaries and botany texts.

Jaskier’s eyes widen in pleased surprise. “Since when do you recite poetry?”

Geralt shrugs, mock innocent. “I figured I’d need to if I wanted to keep getting into bards’ pants.”

The bard in question’s affronted squawk is silenced by Geralt’s lips on his. They don’t talk much after that. 

  
  
  


The small cottage at the end of the path has all of the markers of the love of its inhabitants. There’s a neat, well kept garden and greenhouse a few paces away and a chicken coop where a few hens are picking through the grass for bugs. Someone had painted a few white hearts over the opening of the coop and he spots several beds of roses placed on trellis so the plants can cover the side of the house with fragrant blossoms.

Before they can knock on the door, a woman steps out and narrows her eyes at both of them. “Come to kill me too?”

Geralt looks her over cautiously. She’s probably in her thirties, he guessed, and is attractive enough that he can see why the mayor had been unwilling to kill her along with the mage. Long, curling red hair flows wildly over her shoulders and matches the radiance of her skin and smattering of freckles. Green eyes blaze at them and Geralt doesn’t need his medallion to know she’s spoiling for a fight.

“You’re the one who made the villagers sick,” he guesses.

Her chin tilts up in a silent challenge that contrasts with the dampness in her eyes. “They killed my Merak. They deserve to suffer.”

“So you cursed them.”

“They knew he had nothing to do with any of the charges,” she spits, “The mayor owed him money and wanted to get out of paying it. When Marek refused to respond to his threats, they attacked him. Said he used black magic.” A tear drips down her cheek. “Did they tell you they tortured him before he died? They didn’t even let me see him.”

Jaskier steps forward, brow furrowing in sympathy. “What they did to him was awful,” he agrees, “and they deserved to be punished. But your spell is spreading. It’s going to kill more people if you don’t stop it.”

He starts to say more, but then stumbles, his hand going to his head. 

Geralt moves to his side and braces him with a frown. “Jaskier? What’s wrong?”

The bard shakes his head. “Nothing. Just a headache.” He pats Geralt’s hands gently. “I’m alright, love.”

Sybil watches them carefully. “You’re in love with one another.”

“Yes,” Jaskier answers as though one word could encompass the emotion that had been built on a complicated foundation of loyalty, heartache, and eventually the culmination of years of pining after the mess of Sodden and the war. He turns to look at Geralt. “He’s everything to me.”

The air seems to disappear in his chest under the weight of all that he has here with this man by his side. It’s something he’s never come close to in all his years of life on the Path. Here, with this brave, foolish man by his side, he has everything he could ever want. Everything he could ever need.

He has to keep him safe.

“How can we stop the curse?” he asks, “You’ve had your revenge--now stop the sickness from continuing to spread.”

She shakes her head, sympathy in her features. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? You started this mess!” Jaskier’s voice is sharp. “Tell us how to stop it.”

“I--” Her voice falters and she gestures toward the garden beside the house, “I’m not much of a mage--Merak always had more talent with spellcraft while I was happy with my plants. I took a spell in a book that he never liked. He said it was ‘too chaotic’ for what he needed here. All he wanted to do was help people.”

“He was a good man.”

She nods, another tear dripping down her cheek. “I was so mad at what they’d done, at what they’d  _ gotten away with _ that I wanted to make sure they regretted hurting him like that and that no mage would agree to step in.”

“You made the curse contagious,” Geralt guesses and she nods again. “I don’t understand though...If you weren’t a powerful mage, how is your curse still working?”

Jaskier’s voice is quiet beside him. “Because you powered it with Merak’s death, didn’t you?”

Slowly, she nods.

Geralt reels under the new information and the level of desperation they hint at. It would have required her to watch Merak’s last moments, to stand by as his heart slowly stopped beating so she could channel the power that spiked with his last breath on earth. The townspeople had been so fixated on attacking the mage that they’d overlooked the true threat in their midst. He tries not to think about the part of himself that recognizes the kind of devastation that could create a need for such vengeance.

If Sybil truly hadn’t possessed the skills of her lover, she wouldn’t be able to stop the curse now that it was feeding on each townsperson it killed. Each death ensured that the curse spread further and became more powerful. Eventually, even a powerful mage’s guild wouldn’t be enough to stop this madness.

“Why can’t you stop it?” 

Sybil’s eyes drop to the ground, mouth twisting in misery. She shrugs. “I powered it with his death...and my love for him. This sort of magic requires balance.”

“Balance…” Jaskier repeats, brow furrowed. There’s sweat dampening his hairline and it sits uneasily in the back of the Witcher’s mind.

“It requires sacrifice.”

Geralt’s eyes widen as he looks back at her. “You can’t stop the magic because you no longer have a love to sacrifice.”

Her silence is damning.

He takes a breath and tries to think through the growing panic. Maybe they can convince the local mages to consider the sickness if they know it started with magic, not infection. They could just be carefull, avoid interactions with any of the sick people, and wait out the worst of the curse-born plague. All he had to do was keep Jaskier far away from anyone else.

Jaskier makes a rough sound beside him and Geralt turns in time to see the bard lean over and empty his stomach onto the leaf-strewn ground. The stench of rotten blood and bile filled the air in a noxious cloud.

He rushes over to the other man, hands sweeping over the bard’s back to hide the way they’re shaking. “Jaskier? What…” 

His words trail off when he sees the black blood staining Jaskier’s mouth. It matches the dark lines branching up from the collar of his shirt.

Jaskier gives him a shaky smile and swipes away the worst of the blood on the back of his sleeve. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“But you…” Understanding strikes like funeral bells. “The man from before, you pulled him away.”

A nod and the same rueful smile that made Geralt want to kiss and strangle him in equal measure. “You always said heroics would get me killed.”

“ _ No _ ,” The word is ripped out of his chest like claws. “Not you. I can fix this. I can  _ stop this _ .”

Sybil’s voice is terribly soft. “He’s already infected, Witcher. I--I never meant for anyone else to get hurt.”

He wants to scream at her. To curse her for being so focused on her own pain that she would destroy the best man Geralt has ever known. 

It’s like watching the sand in the hourglass suddenly speed up. All the years they were meant to spend together disappearing beneath the black mark of the curse and a cruel twist of fate. His hands are shaking, unable to do anything but clutch Jaskier to him like he can keep him here through sheer force of will.

“Maybe…” she falters, then squares her shoulders to meet Geralt’s panicked eyes. “Maybe I can help.”

“How?” The word is little more than a rasp.

“The curse has already taken hold in him and I’m not strong enough to get rid of it, but maybe if you were to complete the sacrifice...it would be enough to bring him back.”

“What do you mean?”

Sybil looks at the two of them with a terrible understanding. “When I first found the spell, I thought it would be enough to bring my Merak back, but it was already too late to save him by the time I reached them. Maybe the spell will work to bring him back when the curse isn’t attached to him.”

Jaskier’s eyes flick between the two of them, jaw clenching with the same terrible bravery that leaves Geralt breathless and terrified. “How would we know it would work?”

“We won’t. Not until you’re already gone.”

“No.  _ No _ , I--I’m not going to let you fucking  _ touch _ him--”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice halts the Witcher in a way a blow never could. His hand reaches up to tuck a strand of pale hair behind his ear in a subtle caress that doesn’t match the bleakness in his eyes.“We don’t have a choice.”

He takes in the layer of clammy sweat that now covers the other man’s skin, highlighting the dark lines that track the curse taking hold over him. Recognizes that this will happen even if he refuses. Jaskier will die the same kind of monster as the stranger who’d drawn them into the nightmare and the bard knows it. 

“Want you to do it,” he whispers through bloodstained teeth. “While I’m still me.”

“I can’t. Don’t ask me to do this.”

Jaskier smiles in a way that makes Geralt’s heart break and presses a kiss into Geralt’s palm. He reaches toward the knife he’d taken to carrying ever since the Witcher had given it to him and hands it to him. “You’ve always been the bravest of the two of us.”

It’s not true, he wants to argue. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Instead, he reaches out to press his lips against Jaskier’s and closes his burning eyes to breath in the scent of cedar and summer storms and  _ home _ .  _ This won’t be the last time _ , he begs the universe.  _ They still had time. They  _ deserved _ more time.  _

“I love you,” he breathes against clammy skin.

Jaskier’s eyes shine even as they begin to turn milky and sightless. “I’ll come back to you,” he promises, “I’ll always come back to you.”

His eyes remain fixed on Geralt as the blade slips between his ribs and into his heart. Geralt listens to the organ twitch feebly, struggling to continue to beat even as the breath slowly leaves the bard’s lungs and watches the light leave his eyes. It slows as Jaskier’s body goes limp and he thinks it’s fitting that the same heart that was brave enough to fall in love with a Witcher is the last part of his body to cling to life.

Until even that strength isn’t enough to keep him at Geralt’s side.

Geralt waits, afraid to breathe and miss the moment when Jaskier’s eyes stir beneath closed lids. He waits because Jaskier has never lied to him before, never broken his word, and never allowed Geralt to imagine a life without him. He waits because the idea of a world that continues on with Jaskier walking beneath summer skies and laughing up at him is impossible to conceive. He waits because there is nothing left for him if he accepts the cold body is his arms will never again draw breath.

He waits.

******

Geralt walks away from the festival grounds to the house tucked discreetly in the trees a few hundred yards away. It makes it easy to look out and see the hillside from his bedroom window. Then he can pretend he feels Jaskier’s ghost lingering nearby.

Tomorrow would start the well intended visits from the others. Eskel would come by and sit quiet and supportive while Geralt pretended not to cry. Lambert wouldn’t come, but he’d send a bottle of whiskey as the closest thing to emotional support he could manage. Vesemir was long gone--buried only a handful of years after Jaskier--but Yennefer would show up with some new project to keep him distracted until she was sure he wouldn’t do anything stupid or irreversible.

He stops at the simple, well kept stable attached to the house to dump some grain into the trough of the brown mare waiting for him there. The white patch on her forehead is not in the right place to mistake her for her namesake and he can’t help but think his Roach would never be so eager for the scratches that make this mare’s eyes close in bliss. Jaskier probably would have spoiled her rotten.

He adds that to the list of things Jaskier didn’t get to experience with him.

Closing the stable doors firmly shut, a sudden gust of bitterly cold wind makes him look up in surprise. Overhead, the stars that had dotted the sky for the festival are quickly disappearing behind thick, dark clouds. He frowns at the sight of the storm overhead, already hearing the rumbles of thunder that warns that it will only get worse.

Lightning cracks in a concussive burst that makes his ears throb in protest. He instinctively flinches when a bright light flares a half a mile away and catches sight of chunks of wood flying through the air as a tree falls to the earth. Fire leaps eagerly along the exposed heart of the trunk, eating away at the once mighty giant.

A terrible thought comes to him then and he spins to watch the storm continue to move closer to the hillside and the trees that mark the place where Jaskier is buried.

_ No. _

_ Not again. Please.  _

Geralt runs towards the trees without any sort of plan to protect the last relic from his life with Jaskier from nature’s wrath. His mind seems unable to think of anything but the rising terror that he won’t be able to save even this. 

_ It has to be you, _ Jaskier’s voice whispers from his memories.  _ You’ve always been the bravest of both of us. _

_ But why did it always mean losing Jaskier in the process? _

His feet slide on the wet grass as rain begins to fall in sheets around him. He can feel the electricity crackling through the air now, promising another strike soon. The ground is soft and shifts beneath his feet, transitioning to cobblestones as he finally makes it to the festival grounds.

Ahead of him, he can see the shrine and the trees with the buttercups and dandelions at the base. The candles have already been extinguished by the rain and the flowers are windswept and ragged, blown in clumps around the base of the trunks. He has a moment to think that maybe it will be safe, that it will weather this storm just like it has countless others. He starts to slow and--

_ BOOM! _

The sound is deafening and the concussive blow sends him flying back into the muddy earth. There’s a shrill ringing noise in his ears that signals that the lightning strike has nearly blown out his eardrums. He rolls to his knees, disoriented and graceless. His vision is spotted with the aftereffects of the blinding light that leaves white and red starburst dancing in the corners of his eyes.

When he can focus again, he feels himself go numb.

At the top of the hill, the trees are little more than a burning crevasse. The lightning split them down the middle in a mockery of what they represent. Leaves and the last of the flowers slowly burn alongside the shattered and split wood. Half of the tree is leaning into the earth while the rest still points up at the sky in jagged chunks that can never again sprout life.

It’s like losing Jaskier all over again.

He gets to his feet because he doesn’t know what else to do. Stares and blinks like if he just tries hard enough that the image will be replaced with the one he wanted. In a final mockery, the rain has stopped and he can smell the shift that signals the storm is moving on. His hands clench into fists tight enough to make his knuckles go white. He’s so overwhelmed with the raw ache in his chest that he almost doesn’t see what the storm seems to have left behind.

There’s a man standing alone, staring up at the destroyed trunk of the trees featured in the festival.

Geralt’s heart feels like it’s nothing more than shards of glass rattling within his ribcage as he takes in the sight. He’d planted the seedlings in the years after Jaskier’s death, nursed them into the twisting shrine to the body that remained nestled beneath their roots. Losing them feels like losing Jaskier all over again and he wants to scream and rage at destiny for continuing to rake her claws over the broken remains of his soul.

He slowly comes to a stop a few yards away from the silent stranger and has to force his voice to come out as something other than a scream. “You should get out of here,” he manages, “It’s not safe.”

Nowhere near him is safe. Not for anyone.

The sound of his voice makes the stranger jump and turn to face him, pale face lit by the flickering flames, and Geralt feels his heart stop for a second time that night.

“I--impossible,” he whispers, eyes stinging. “This isn’t real.”

His mind must have fractured in the wake of the lightning strike or in the wake of seeing the shrine destroyed. That was the only explanation for the ghost standing before him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, taking a short step forward.

He stares. So many years without the bard to look at has made his memory fuzzy. He didn’t remember the exact shade of brown or the tone of his voice. Sometimes he forgets what it was like to feel the weight of a warm body against his, even if he still woke up reaching for someone who was no longer there.

The man standing across from him is like suddenly seeing in color for the first time. 

It connects the faded images of the faint lines around his eyes and the dimple that appears in his cheeks when he worries at the inside of his cheek. Geralt realizes that his eyes were never the color of a summer sky, but of the same storm that had just passed over them. He’s wearing the same style of tunic that had been the fashion when he’d, when he’d died. It’s as though nothing ever changed. Nothing but Geralt.

Suddenly, he’s running forward and Jaskier races to meet him, crashing together like stars colliding. 

He lets the weight of the man in his arms carry him back into the wet earth, shocking in its reminder of the presence of reality. There’s a muffled choking sound and Jaskier’s hands are soothing over his face and running through his hair. It’s not until the bard’s thumb wipes the dampness away from Geralt’s cheek that he realizes the sounds are coming from him, that he’s crying in great, heaving sobs.

“You came back,” he whispers in a voice that carries wonder.

Jaskier’s answer is pressed into trembling lips and branded into his soul.

“Always.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


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